He had walked the length of the ward twice and was on his third lap when Leethveeschi waddled out of the nurses’ station to bar his path.
“Patient Hewlitt,” it said, “please do not walk so fast. You could collide with one of my nurses and injure them, or they you. As well, and I realize that the thought may not have occurred to you, it shows great insensitivity on your part to parade your obvious physical fitness in this fashion before the other patients, some of whom are seriously ill, injured, or bedridden. You may continue with your exercise, slowly.”
“Sorry, Charge Nurse,” said Hewlitt.
Moving at the slower pace, Hewlitt felt awkward just staring straight in front of him or down at the floor ahead, so he began to sneak quick looks at the patients he was passing. The majority of them did not look at him, probably because they were sleeping, they were too ill, or they thought him as ugly as he did them. The other patients followed him with their eyes, too many eyes in some cases, and it came as no surprise that the only one who spoke to him was a Kelgian.
“You look all right to me, for an Earth-human,” it said, rippling the fur that was not concealed by a large rectangle of silvery grey fabric taped to its side. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” said Hewlitt, stopping and turning to face it. “The hospital is trying to find out.”
“Leethveeschi called out the resuscitation team for you the day you arrived,” it said. “It must be serious. Are you going to die?”
“I don’t know,” Hewlitt replied, “and I hope not.”
The Kelgian was lying on its side in a large, square bed on top of the blanket and with its furry body curved into the shape of a flattened S. It drew itself up, flattening the S even more, and said, “Seeing you Earth-humans balancing like that on just two legs makes me uneasy. If you want to talk, sit on the bed. I won’t break. I won’t bite, either; I’m herbivorous.”
Hewlitt sat sideways on the edge of the bed, taking care that his hip did not touch the other’s furry body or stubby, caterpillar legs. He had always liked talking to people, and provided he closed his eyes or looked away from time to time, he might be able to fool himself into thinking that the creatures in this place fell into that category.
Now that the Kelgian had mentioned it, he realized that a creature who moved on twenty feet would feel a little strange about someone who used only two. The feeling was mutual.
He cleared his throat and prepared to make polite conversation, if it was possible to do that with a Kelgian.
“My name is Hewlitt,” he said. “I noticed you passing my bed a few times, usually with a Tralthan or a Dwerlan and once, I think, with a Duthan. I’ve been keying into the library to learn and identify the different physiological classifications so that I’ll know what as well as who is doing things to me, but some of them I’m still not sure about.”
“I am Morredeth,” said the Kelgian. “You are right about the Duthan and the other two. When we passed your bed you did not speak. We decided that you were either very ill or very antisocial.”
“I did not speak because you were always talking to your companions,” he said, “and interrupting you would not have been polite.”
‘Polite,’ that word again!” said the other, its fur rising into spikes. “There is no equivalent meaning in our language. If you wanted to speak to me you should have done so, and if I had not wanted to listen to you I would have told you to be quiet. Why must non-Kelgians make everything so complicated?”
He decided to treat it as a rhetorical question and asked, “What is wrong with you, Morredeth? Is it serious?”
The silence began to lengthen and still the other did not reply. Kelgians were psychologically incapable of telling a lie, Hewlitt reminded himself, but there was nothing to keep them from remaining silent if they did not want to answer. He was about to apologize for asking the question when the other spoke.